


Working Relationship

by Catminty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: DJD - Freeform, Decepticon victory, Fluff, M/M, Manipulation, Mentions of offscreen gore, PostWar, Terror, Threats of Violence, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-13 16:15:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4528650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catminty/pseuds/Catminty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Scavengers do their best to live a meager existence in postwar Cybertron. Tarn's peculiar fascination in their technician throws a wrench in the works.</p><p>I kept getting glares. So now it's time to post this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bibliotecaria_D](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/gifts).



> Hello, everyone! It's been a while! Health problems, work, college, and moving have kept me a little more than busy recently. But BibliotecariaD managed to plant this seed in my head a little while ago. With some helpful poking, I have been able to create something. Two more chapters are just about ready, and I will see about more after this weekend. 
> 
> Fair warning, there's bound to be some ooc moments here and there. It's my goal to keep them as in character as I can. If anything flows weirdly, let me know! I can try to fix anything that is off.

New world Cybertron was an amazing place. Fantastic. Stupendous, even. With the Autobots and deserters scattered across the galaxy, fighting was at an all time low consisting mostly of drunken brawls and power struggles in the budding new world order. That was great, because the Scavengers were more than capable of giving the bigger, drunker Decepticons a wide berth when tables flipped and punches were thrown.

Plus, they knew they were the bottom of the barrel right off the bat. You could ask any one of them and they’d gladly proclaim their rank as lowest of the low. Even Krok would say his team of good for nothings couldn’t even lick a boot properly. Power hungry? No way. They had no need to climb the proverbial tower of power.

By Flywheels, they had jobs. Temporary requests infested their inbox faster than scraplets once they filled a few requests successfully. Their unique abilities to turn scrapheaps into a liveable environment while utilizing what others saw as waste proved to be a very attractive skill quality. Especially when the other grunt applicants out there listed descriptive ways to crush skulls as their main skills.

The usual slew of odd jobs were small things like _fix this_ or _make/locate that_. But sometimes a big one would come in. Krok and Crankcase landed a gig rewiring the newly established Decepticon command center. The pay was good and they’d be working for weeks so long as they didn’t manage to burn the place down. Those two had real jobs where they could keep their heads down, toil away for a set number of hours in the day, then go home.

Spinister landed a gig at a scraped together medical facility. The mech’s dumber than a box of bolts. But stick him in an honest to goodness clinic with supplies and you might end up with the impression that he doesn’t spend most of his evenings staring at his own hands. The miracles he could pull off on some patients could make you think the dopey demeanor was an act. That didn’t stop the team from discretely replacing Spinny’s blaster charge with flash bangs every other week. They’d been on a cramped ship with him for long enough to know that precaution was necessary for the brilliant idiot.

That left Misfire and Fulcrum to pick up the slack on the temporary jobs. There were reasons why Misfire wasn’t allowed to have full time placement anymore. Mainly it was because he made circuit boosters. A lot of circuit boosters. You can’t really hold down a job very well if you, to quote: “Can’t stop doing loopty-loops because they’re sooo much fun. I mean, have you tried it lately?”

The hyperactive jet had his other uses. All of that excess energy was great for hunting down useful parts. He was just twitchy enough to spot every bit of useful scrap in a mile radius without crashing into too many solid objects. Fulcrum took his time collecting the important parts — Loser, look what I found! — and then worked on the order requests while Misfire slept the subsequent power crash off.

So yeah. They had jobs that paid them for what they’d been doing out on the W.A.P., may that clunker rust in peace. They were all so happy. Long live the Decepticon empire. 

Humming quietly to himself, Fulcrum held the freshly soldered motherboard into the light. The recycled part practically glowed with potential. He’d make a spiffy like-new datapad for himself eventually. All that was left was the casing, the wiring, a good set of processing chips, a screen, and… Erm, right. One functional piece down, nine or so to go.

A knock at the front door interrupted the K-Con’s pondering. Glancing at the time, Fulcrum frowned. It was getting late, but it was still a little too early for the team to come home. Did Crankcase forget his keycard again? Another knock had him going to the door, passing by the twitching lump on the couch that was Misfire in the middle of an afternoon crash-nap.

What Fulcrum expected when he cracked open the door was not what he saw. No one really expects to open their front door to be confronted by a wall of killing machine that, last you checked, had designs on your demise. Horrible, terrible, painfully murderous designs meant to make your last hours functioning a living nightmare. All because you failed to explode like every good little K-Con should.

“Good evening,” the deep, sensual purr of Tarn’s baritone shook Fulcrum to the core. A single wide, panicked optic glowed a terrified pale yellow from behind the flimsy chain keeping the door from opening fully. “I am looking for a mech with a very particular set of skills. A technician, to be exact. Time has not been a luxury given my appointed task of flushing out and…dealing with those that try to defy our glorious leader’s ideology.”

The insignia-shaped mask leaned down to Fulcrum’s level. Thick, purple fingers slipped into the thin opening between the door and frame, then slid up and slowly pinched the metal chain. Care was taken to gently roll the comparatively weak length between the armored forefinger and thumb. Red optics creased in a smile behind the mask as the hand gave a quick twist, ripping the chain from the door in one fluid motion. Fulcrum's throat cables clenched sympathetically. “My duty to the Decepticon cause is something I’m quite sure you’re familiar with.”

The old hinges squealed in protest when the thick metal door was nudged open. Or maybe that was Fulcrum shrieking in fright while he back peddled to the opposite side of the room. He honestly didn’t know. Tunnel vision had the tendency to make anything outside of the hunter tracking his quarry just peripheral sensory data.

Tarn ducked under the low-clearance doorway and took two measured steps into the room. A sharp, sudden snore from the lump on the sofa only made the nightmare incarnate cast a curiously glance in that general direction. Still, he loomed closer. “You could understand that I have neither the time or interest in taking care of a few…” Here, he leveled his gaze on Fulcrum. “Pesky little problems. Dear fellow Decepticon, would you know of someone, anyone, who might be able to assist me?”

Pale optics gained a little more color as realization sank in. Rattling armor quieted in retreating panic. R-Right. This was one of those situations. Long ago, being a nobody who was good at his job made Fulcrum the prime target of larger mechs that didn’t want to do grunt work. He was _good_ at grunt work! Apparently, even the DJD didn’t want to bother with menial tasks when they could threaten a listie-turned-lackie into doing it.

Raising a shaking hand, Fulcrum vaguely gestured to himself. “I-I could. Maybe?” The suspicious, upraised tilt of Tarn’s head had him sputtering, “I uh. I mean, of course I can do it? What… Did…”

The burnt-orange mech stared dumbly at the small box Tarn extended. “Wonderful,” the titan crooned. “I will be back tomorrow. See that you have this repaired on time.” The small box was delicately placed in Fulcrum’s trembling, upturned hands.

The door barely slid shut behind the DJD commander when Fulcrum crumpled to the ground. Alive. He was still alive, praise be to Flywheels. Carefully, the technician peeled open the box to see what was inside. All he had to do was… Picking up two separate pieces of one device, Fulcrum eyed the half-melted transceiver.

R-Right. Time to find new parts. Fulcrum hastily set to work, the threat of not finishing on time serving as more than enough motivation. He could j-just work through the night. Right? No problem!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter not posted to tumblr. Encouraged by more stern stares because I flounder when I'm not being poked once in a while.

The repair job was relatively simple. A destroyed transceiver with the instructions to both repair and replicate it was something Fulcrum was thankfully able to accomplish in record time. Granted, he'd been shaking so much that he'd nicked himself and bleed all over the components at one point. Which only made him panic even more. Even if Tarn dealt with internal bodily fluids on a daily basis, it didn't mean he would be fine with his shiny new toys being covered in filth. 

Shiny. Right. Shiny was a good idea. There was still a high chance of maim and murder when he finished the job. But maybe Tarn would be happy if his order was both useful and presentable. It was a desperate kind of hope that had the technician polishing the freshly contoured casings of the handheld receivers to a gleaming finish. Wax was even used for good measure. 

Fulcrum gave the devices one more functionality test, sighing in relief when they sent and received messages flawlessly. The utmost care was given to set the transceivers back into the small box Tarn provided. Settling the lid on it felt like relieving ten tons off his shoulders. Job well done. 

It was getting late, he realized belatedly. Or early? The city lights were already brightening to their early morning glow. It wouldn't be long before they lit to the day cycle. Fulcrum pushed himself from his chair, leaned back with his palms pressed against his hips, and winced as numerous spinal struts popped into place. Spending the night hunched over his workbench really took a toll on his joints. Rolling his shoulders, Fulcrum quietly padded into the kitchen to grab something to eat. 

In the time it took to warm a nice pot of food, a knock echoed from the front door. Fulcrum gingerly took the pot off the heating element and went to answer. There was no reason to ruin perfectly good food if he did end up getting dismembered. But maybe he'd be fine. The transceivers he made were admittedly good quality. Krok would've been so proud if he had the chance to see them. 

Tarn ducked into the Scavenger's measly abode with the calm grace of a mech that was clearly in charge. He didn't even bother casting a glance at the remains of the door chain as its battered remains thumped against the door. The massive mech's attention was eerily focused on one relatively diminutive techie and the offering of the small box that served as his salvation. 

The lid was tossed aside calmly. One of the devices was extracted from the box and tested in Tarn's comparatively larger hand. It was small, but not too small. A charcoal thumb swiped the bright little screen and a pleased hum caused hope to swell in Fulcrum's spark. 

"The order was for two," Tarn said offhandedly while continuing his inspection. 

Two? But. But he made two. Looking back and forth between the device Tarn held and the box, Fulcrum began to panic. The box was tilted toward him, showing its contents devoid of a second transceiver. Tarn's helm took on a disapproving cant. 

Blindly, the smaller mech dashed to his messy workbench to search for the missing item. Loose parts were pushed to floor as he rummaged through every possible space it could have been left. Not on the table. Not in the drawers. Not even in the old rust stick bin. It was _gone_. Panic made his throat close. Fulcrum made to dash to the kitchen. 

But then, the device gave a soft ping. Fulcrum stopped dead in his tracks. 

Slow, heavy steps closed in on him. The small, shiny transceiver was held level with his face. A large servo fell on his shoulder and his spark went cold. Never had ten characters ever been so life threatening. 

_hey stupid_

He numbly looked up at the mask covering the Decepticon Justice Division leader's face. Crimson optics flicked sharply from the innocent screen to Fulcrum's panic-paled gaze. 

The transceiver pinged again. The new message read: _come to bed nerd_. 

Oh. Why. How. 

Raising a shaking finger, Fulcrum squeaked out, "I... Think I left it upstairs. Would you mind if I...?" The thick hand on his shoulder squeezed enough to hurt, but pulled away before causing damage. Tarn was not happy. Nope. A one star and snippy review about unprofessionalism was bound to be plastered on Fulcrum's professional work page after this fiasco. That, or his entrails were going to be plastered on the walls by the time Tarn was done with him. The former was very much the preference in mind as he raced upstairs, snatched the stolen transceiver from a dozing Misfire's grasp, and stumbled back downstairs, all while unintentionally squealing a sound akin to a dying petrorabbit. 

Dropping to his knees with his head hung low, Fulcrum offered the missing device to Tarn like a disciple to a diety. His outstretched arms trembled in the longest ten seconds of his functioning before it was plucked from his palms for examination. 

Soft clicks signified typing; a quiet ping announced the message's prompt arrival. Fulcrum held his breath, daring to hope. 

Tarn hummed thoughtfully. "What is the range?" 

"It's connected to the planet's active network," Fulcrum blurted, face still parallel to the ground in submission. "So it should be usable anywhere there is significant population and wherever any old satellites are still functioning."

A moment if silence stretched. The small techie swallowed nervously. 

"I see. That may fit my needs well enough for now. Though I want one with better connectivity in the near future."

Near future. Fulcrum's plating rattled as he trembled in growing relief. Future work meant functioning techie. Meaning he might not die after all. He did good? He would live? He... Would have to make more things for Tarn. The small seed of relief quickly morphed into a cold stone of dread in his fuel tank. He barely skimmed by this time. What if. What if Tarn remained _displeased_ next time? What if—

A transceiver was placed into his still upturned hands. Along with a few credit chips. More than a few. When Tarn's heavy footfall carried to the door, Fulcrum looked up in disbelief at the healthy pile of creds. 

"I will transmit my future orders to you as needed," Tarn said simply. "Prompt order fills are best in both our interests." That was a threat if there ever was a threat. Deliver or pay the price. Staying alive and in one piece was definitely a point of interest. Fulcrum clutched the transceiver to his chest like a lifeline. 

Tarn ducked out of the home's short doorway, but paused just outside, purring over his shoulder, "Don't disappoint."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More glares received, but plot demandith plottery.

Everything was a blurry, muffled mess of bright colors and loud noises that really could go away. Preferably immediately and forever. Fulcrum could ask nicely. _Please?_ Look at how nicely he asked. So polite! He was very busy doing Important Things, he knew he was. The thrice flagged alarm screaming in his HUD said so. So, grabby hands, would you please just leave a mech alone to his business?

... What was he doing again?

The planet flipped as Grabby Hands hauled Fulcrum off the chilly floor. He hadn't _felt_ sideways. Slid over? Or was it "on his side"? Eh. He hadn't felt lopsided before he was picked up. But maybe he was.

Rear met chair abruptly, and Fulcrum immediately began gravitating back to the floor head first. When he was caught and forced upright, there was a disconnected snarl that sounded distinctly like an insult to his persons. Hey, that was ruuuude. Fulcrum tried to turn his head in the offender's general direction to state his opinion on the matter.

Another hand gripped the back of his helm and tilted it up. The world of shifting, swirling blobs did an impressive somersault that seemed to make his internal alarms shriek even louder. Ugh.

He made to plead for Grabby Hands to stop. Really, this kind of manhandling was edging on bullying. But when warm, buzzing liquid poured into his mouth from the cup pressed to his lips, the only thing Fulcrum could do was drink. Oh. Since when was his tank trying to consume itself? Was that why that beeping wouldn't stop? Spurred by the brief taste, his addled processor focused and zoomed on the tasks required to get the fuel from cup to protesting tank as fast as physically possible.

A little went down the wrong pipe in the process. His systems took care of coughing and sneezing it up for him. Grabby Hands had the decency to move the cup to safety while he nearly coughed up a filter. Fulcrum greedily latched back onto the offered fuel the moment his intakes were clear.

Systems simmered to life with the fresh energon in his tanks. Subsystems queued sluggishly in his process list behind a wall of alerts. After a brief glance, Fulcrum realized they _were_ low fuel alerts set to standby. Huh. He didn't push his alerts to his waiting queue unless he either wasn't able to take care of them or simply didn't have time to. What _had_ he been doing? The swirling blobs in his vision refused to give him a straight answer.

"—better tell me—oing on—this piece of—get himself offlined."

Heeeeeeey now. Those fuzzy words sounded very harsh. And offensive. And, blearily thinking about it, they were probably deserved, at least to some extent. Fulcrum knew even in a half-offlined stupor that his aft had an uncanny ability to make a b-line to the closest proverbial hot seat at inopportune times. Hmmmmm. What did he do this time? His head pitched forward rapidly as he contemplated his predicament. Grabby Hands caught him again with a whoosh of muttered insults.

"Just—" Grabby Hands sounded so frustrated, but not mad. Subdued irritation? Mediocre agitation? Simply disgruntled...? Heh.

"Just get—sorry aft—berth—slag taken care of in the morning."

Another set of hands, bigger hands attached to sturdier arms, hefted him from the chair without ceremony. The world jostled and jiggled for a while, then Fulcrum crashed abruptly onto a soft, warm surface that felt like bliss. His broad, tan chin rubbed against the fabric in silent worship to the lords of all things padded.

A not-so-soft frame flopped on top of Fulcrum's back, followed by another at his side. The heat pouring from their frames made him realize just how cold he was by comparison. Trembling, chattering shivers quaked the small technician's frame when his internal heating system finally received enough juice go jump start. The temperature gauge in his HUD made a marginal tick away from the frigid spectrum. The others piled on him must have noticed, because their warm, heavy frames closed in further with soothing rumbles.

A different kind of chill raced up Fulcrum's struts. He didn't like the pressure, the feeling of being squished like the soft fabric pressed under his cheek. It normally made him hot and uncomfortable in ways he didn't like. But, for now, Fulcrum didn't protest. He didn't have the strength to push them off. Besides, it was better than the cold, his sluggish processor suggested as it powered him down for rest.

~-~-~

Thunder snapped ominously outside in discord with the harsh, regular sweep of rain against the metal roof. On a vid display, a cheesy orchestral played a looming chord as a B movie actor stumbled pathetically through dark halls of an abandoned manor.

_"Sir Proudturn? Sir Proudturn, where did you disappear to?"_

Luminescence from a smaller screen cast shadows against the sharp angles of Krok's furrowed brow. A list of miscellaneous items along with the current date displayed clearly on the screen. Eyeing the cleanly little box beside the forgotten miniature datapad, the small squad leader was able to determine that most of the listed contents were tucked neatly inside. Or what was probably the items. Krok cast a sidelong glance into the box. Some items were a bit...oddly designed.

Was their technician keeping a log of his completed projects? Scrolling through the device, Krok realized that not all of the text entries were the same. Some listed items and a date, others listed confirmations or questions on details. Was he reading a conversation?

The volume of the tinny organ playing on the vid display gradually increased, notes drawing out as the actor on screen unknowingly fumbled through dangerous territory.

Krok blinked owlishly. Was this thing connected to the Cybertron Information Network? As far as be was aware, no personal devices were capable of that yet. Flipping the device over, he pondered opening the casing to see if there was an antenna of some sort. A quick, concise _ping_ caught his attention, and he turned the screen to find a new message.

_Knock, knock..._

A bloodcurdling scream blared in the darkness; the naive actor meeting a violent end. In the same instant, a sharp succession of pounds were delivered to the front door.

Given that the other four members of his team were currently passed out in a bury-the-blubbering-idiot pile, Krok was confident to admit to himself that he jumped. It was fine. He nodded to himself briskly as he got up, checking his blaster at his hip. It was _fine_. A mech was permitted to startle at a sudden, loud noise in peacetime Cybertron. It wasn't like he was spooked by some overly dramatized scary movie he was watching all by himself in the wee hours of the night. So what if only psychopaths would be out at this hour in this awful weather?

Damn Misfire, and damn his stupid vid files. Krok flicked the display off for good measure.

But when Krok opened the door to the Scavengers' home—a small, thin rectangle of sheet metal cobbled together—a different kind of fear made the diminutive mech's back go ramrod straight. The one mech he and his team never hoped to meet again stood patiently on their doorstep as rain pelted down overhead. Psychopath indeed.

Ember hued optics glowed beneath a mask covered in rainwater, setting the purple symbol of their faction ablaze in firey light. Tarn's steady, imposing gaze bore straight into Krok's spark, making the much smaller mech quiver on instinct.

But only for an instant.

Shoulders squared and chestplates puffed out in a sorry example of bravado. Hey, a Decepticon squad leader's gotta walk the walk, even if he can only really crawl pathetically through the mud and filth. The Scavengers were Scavengers through and through, Krok just as much as the rest of his ragtag group of luckless flunkies. But frag if he wouldn't work his skid flaps down to nubs for his team.

He sure as frag could face down doom on their doorstep.

Crossing his arms and leaning back casually, Krok grumbled in his most pissed off, authoritative voice, "What the frag do you want at this hour?"


End file.
